Last Lullaby
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar, Noah Gray, Peter, Claire. The many ways he tried to save his son and the countless ways he failed.


I tried to work out the logistics of how and why Noah still exists (as the spoilers indicate), and then I got a headache. So, um, let's pretend this makes sense.

**Title**: Last Lullaby  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar, Noah Gray, Peter, Claire  
**Summary**: The many ways he tried to save his son and the countless ways he failed.  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x19  
**Word Count**: 1500  
**Notes**: ...I need to write a Claire-centric story to make up for this.

* * *

It starts like this.

He talks to Peter.

It's surprisingly civilized. Sylar doesn't want Peter's lame new power, and Peter still remembers those four minutes he thought of Sylar as a brother.

So no one dies.

But Peter says, "You have a kid. In the future. You have a son, Sylar."

The lie detector doesn't go off.

Sylar shouldn't care. In the future, ________. He's heard it before, filled in the blanks. _You're president. You're dead. You're your father's son._

The future is fluid, malleable, not set in stone. He can change it.

Slowly, however, the idea eats away at him. He doesn't want to burst into song or start making waffles, but somewhere beneath his breastbone, something tiny is whispering to the beat of _mine_ and _I want him_.

He goes about it all wrong, of course.

Finds Nakamura, but there's nothing left to steal. Tries to paint the future, but it never involves a child.

So he goes back to Peter.

"Yeah," Peter sighs, tired. "I'm pretty sure, Sylar."

The basement is small, dark. Full of fugitives.

Sylar is hungry, but levels his gaze with Peter's. "I want details."

Peter rummages through the stack of papers on a crooked, messy table. "I don't have time for this." His phone vibrates. He glances at it, then at Sylar. "Look. All I know is his name."

He's not going to ask. It doesn't matter. "Mother?"

Peter leans his palms on the table, weary. "I didn't ask."

"Where?"

Peter pauses. Shifts awkwardly.

Sylar cocks a curious eyebrow.

"Costa Verde."

If Sylar is surprised, he doesn't show it. "I'll be raising a child in California. Have I been lobotomized in this future of yours?"

Peter's mouth twitches. "Possibly."

The lie detector goes off, so Sylar tilts his head. "You're lying, Peter."

Peter's phone vibrates again. He flips it open, gives Sylar one last glance before turning away, and says, "I guess I am. You can't raise a dead child. Hello? Hey, Nathan. Yeah, it's ready."

There are things he should be focusing on. Power. Revenge. The revolution. But Sylar wakes up in the morning with a strange sense of urgency. Feels trapped in the present. Uninformed, curious, a little suspicious.

He needs to know, so he tracks down some woman who can bend time and space, but only on the astral plane. He cracks her open and spends an afternoon practicing. It's just like watching movies, he thinks, so why can't he find what he's looking for?

He's detached from the situation, has nothing to anchor the power to, so he picks a random date, four years in the future.

He vaguely remembers Costa Verde and that one long stretch of identical homes. He's not entirely surprised he's picked the Bennet house.

Things are hazy with this power, unfocused and unstable, but he sees sunshine. And rubble, ashes, fragments of bones. He shrugs mentally, and tries to rewind a year. Then two, then three. Still nothing. The future he's looking for seems unwritten.

So Sylar goes to see Peter again.

The revolution is failing. Peter can lead—that's what Sylar likes to hate about him—but he is powerless, weak, human.

"I'll fix you," Sylar offers casually, stepping out of the shadows during combat.

The scar on Peter's face is gushing blood, but Peter is adamant. "Either help or get lost!"

Sylar helps. Takes out an entire unit of agents with a flick of his fingers. Turns back to Peter with a scowl. Offers his hand. "Take it, Peter."

Peter doesn't hesitate.

"Talk to Claire," he tells Sylar in exchange. His scar heals instantly. "In the future. She'll know."

Can't do that, Sylar wants to say, but there's no need to reveal a flawed ability.

Instead, he taps back into an old power. Grabs Peter's shoulder and searches his memories.

Closes his eyes and tilts his head. Zooms in on California, narrows it down to Costa Verde, selects the Bennet house, chooses the kitchen. And there's Claire. And Peter. And a dead child. And then there is nothing.

He receives a text message the next day. _His name was Noah._

Sylar's had enough. This is unproductive. Nonconstructive. Useless.

But Sylar fixates. It's in his blood. He won't fight _that_.

Peter's memory is a reference. Sylar uses it to solve this Rubik's cube. Pulls out each piece carefully, analyzes it for clues.

He hunts down information on Knox, the unknown in the room. Finds out he's dead. Realizes things have already changed.

So that future's not happening, _can't_ happen. Logically.

But Sylar has a name now. And a face. He can search the future for Noah.

Eventually, he finds one. Here, Noah is a month old. He dies in his sleep. Randomly. Just forgets how to breathe. Sylar resolves not to sleep through Noah's infancy.

The future shifts slightly.

Here, Noah is a year old. Learning to walk. Dies when he slips and hits his head. Sylar vows to prop him up telekinetically until preschool.

The future changes again.

Here, Noah is four and familiar. He dies when an agent slams him into a wall. Sylar taps out, finds the agent, kills him preemptively. It doesn't work. Nothing works.

Noah dies seven times before Sylar realizes he's been watching his son for weeks. He's tired, hungry, and starting to believe in conspiracies. Peanut allergy. Playground accident. Gunfire. Nuclear apocalypse. _Bees_.

It's a fictional child, he tells himself. He exists only in _what ifs_ and _hypothetically speaking_...

So why does he feel so real?

It takes Sylar a month to do it right. To start thinking straight. To find Claire.

He doesn't _want_ children. He doesn't know why he's planning this so thoroughly. But it's logic and logic is infallible.

There's only one way to prevent Noah from dying.

Genetics.

Noah needs two immortal parents to survive.

"I don't have time for this, Sylar," Claire sighs, storming past him. She pockets a gun and dials her cell phone. "Hey, yeah, Dad, it's done—"

Sylar glances at the carnage around her, then calmly wraps his fingers around her phone. "Make time."

She freezes, eyes narrowing. "Danko will be crawling all over this place in five minutes and you want to _chat_?"

"No," he says. "I want you to help me."

She blinks, seems to contemplate him for a moment, then walks away.

He slams her into the wall from across the room. Cocks his head. "We have to save someone."

"Yeah, I've been doing that for two months," she grits out, struggling. "Unlike you."

"There's a little boy in California."

Claire wavers but only slightly. "Since when do you help little children, Sylar?"

"He's my son."

Her eyes widen. In surprise, or possibly pity. It pisses him off, and he doesn't understand why. He loosens her bonds, then takes a step closer, training his ears. "Agents."

They duck out together, and she hesitates only a little before getting into his car. "Take me to Peter," she orders. Adds quietly: "He'll know what to do about your son."

"No."

The road stretches before them, blurs into the horizon.

"Only you can save Noah, Claire."

She frowns. "What?"

"That's his name."

Her expression is almost comical. "Wow. I knew you had a man-crush on my dad, but seriously, Sylar..."

Sylar doesn't smile. "I didn't name him. You did."

Claire's too shocked to blink. "...I did what now?"

"In nine months."

She finally blinks. "Well. I'll be getting out here, thanks," she announces. Reaches for the door handle.

The locks click.

*

It ends like this.

He talks to Peter.

It's not civilized. Sylar wants information. Peter wants to kill him. They come to an impasse because, really, neither can die, so Peter sighs and tells him, earnestly: "You'll never find them."

Secretly, Sylar knows this is true.

"Noah—"

"—is fine," Peter interrupts, wiping the blood off his mouth. "Healthy, happy. _Normal_."

Sylar pauses.

Without a word, he turns to leave.

"It could have been different," Peter calls after him. His tone is rough but not unkind. "I saw a different future." His voice softens. "You could've helped us, Sylar. Been a good guy. A good father."

Sylar slips into the shadows.

Noah is happy and healthy. And alive. He won't die in his sleep or choke on a peanut or get slammed into walls. Won't die next week, or next month, or next year.

Without Sylar in his life, Noah will live.

So. Sylar has changed the future. Shaped it completely. Bent it to his will. Rewritten the story.

Except for one part.

Even like this, he thinks, he's become a good father.


End file.
